‘TRAUMA BOND’

Juan Sebastian Restrepo(zeb) is a Florida-based artist known for his paintings and drawings that explore the interplay between memory and storytelling. He holds an MFA from Southern Illinois University Edwardsville and a BFA from Pratt Institute. His recent exhibitions include “intersections” at New World Gallery (2023) and “Hybridity” at the Edwardsville Arts Center (2018). Upcoming solo shows include “No Further Expectations Beyond this Night” at The Art and Culture Center/Hollywood (2024) and “multitasking” at [NAME] Publications in Miami, FL (2024). Restrepo also teaches as an Adjunct Faculty member at Florida International University and Miami Dade College.

     TRAUMA BOND                      

     First off, Candy was not old enough to be a grandmother. She had just turned forty-eight and did yoga at the YMCA twice a week. Real grandmothers had to be at least sixty with white hair and glaucoma and wearing three pairs of glasses. Like her Grammy Barnes, once upon a time, doling out gardening advice and oatmeal with blackstrap molasses. That was an earlier era, before opioids and Suboxene. Before teenagers covered themselves with tattoos and got pregnant without knowing it and lost their parental rights by leaving their toddler wandering the neighborhood in diapers. Repeatedly.

     “It’s all my fault,” Candy said. “I must have done something wrong.” She and her neighbor, Sheila, were sitting on the back porch, drinking ‘sun’ tea. Candy brewed it in a big jar on summer weekends. Sometimes they added a touch of vodka.

     “No, you were great. I saw it all. The neighborhood crew loved it when you’d load them in your van and drive them through the carwash. Anymore, it’s the luck of the draw, having kids,” Sheila said. 

     “Your daughter seems to be doing okay,” Candy said.

     “I hope so,” Sheila said. “She only calls home once a month now.”

     The toddler’s name was Max. A puffball rascal who pulled the cat’s tail. Named for Mad Max, his absent mother’s favorite movie. After several 911 calls from neighbors in the trailer court, Child Protection Services got involved. They placed Max in foster care with Candy. The unrepentant daughter also lost her right to a name in Candy’s house. Candy tried to not even think her name.

     “It’s a shock, but eventually you’ll forgive her, just like when our girls got expelled together,” said Sheila, who had just lugged over a dusty Pack-N-Play crib from her attic. 

     “Remind me what they did,” Candy said.

     “Called in a bomb scare to avoid taking a final exam.”

     “I never forgave her for that. I just forgot,” Candy said.

     “This time, she’s inpatient and receiving a medical detox. She’ll get clean,” Sheila said, “and, honey, your little houseguest is a champ.”

     Sheila waved both hands at Max and scrunched a funny face, and the toddler stared back impassively. 

     “When his dad comes for the supervised visits, Max looks up at him like, hey, who’s the grown-up here?” Candy said.

     Max’s father, Gator, was a scrawny, wannabe rapper who freelanced as a plumber’s assistant. He rarely showed up on schedule at Candy’s house and when he did, played with Max as if he himself were a two-year old. Gator was so skinny that the local plumbers hired him to slide into narrow crawl spaces that nobody else could enter.

     “No worry of Gator ever trying to get custody,” Sheila said.

     “I kind of wish he would,” Candy said. “No, I don’t really mean that.”

     “Relax. I won’t tell CPS.”

     Caseworkers came and went with clipboards and cameras. They studied everything in Candy’s bungalow on Bridge Street. They told her to address her ant problem. Everything was under observation. Everything was being supervised and noted. And everything was getting more tenuous, as Candy second-guessed all her choices. How much screen time is healthy for a toddler? And, of course, the sugar thing. 

     To provide the required level of care for her grandson, Candy would either have to quit her job at the mall optician, or hire a nanny, or put him in a certified daycare. This was according to the red-bearded caseworker who came to inspect Max’s bedroom.

     “What if I took him to work with me?” Candy said, “They have child-care for the retail employees at the mall.”

     “We’d have to inspect those premises too,” the red beard said.

     Silence, while Candy rubbed her eyes with her fists.

     “Are you all right, ma’am?” the caseworker asked.

     “I’m remembering something from high school science class about the act of observation changing the thing observed,” Candy said.

     “You’re feeling… changed how?” the caseworker asked.

     “Way more paranoid,” Candy said and shrugged and pulled her glasses down to the tip of her nose. “They should sell insurance for my predicament. Parental Screw-up Insurance. God, I never expected this to happen to me.”

     “Don’t blame yourself. It happens a lot. I’ve got a twenty-five year old living in my basement, playing video games all night,” the caseworker said.

     Candy appreciated the sentiment. “My grandmother used to listen to a radio show, Queen for a Day, and when it got toward the end and the prizes were being dangled in front of the contestants, she’d say, ‘Just try and get it, sweetie. Just try and get it.’”

     “I’m not sure what that means,” the caseworker said.

     “Most everything in life is too good to be true,” Candy said.

     After her husband bolted when she was six months pregnant (life lesson: never fall in love with a carpet salesman), Candy went back to Central Tech to become an optician’s assistant. She had to pay the bills somehow and, what the heck, she’d always loved eyeglasses. In her will, Grammy Barnes bequeathed an entire collection to Candy. Horn rims, rhinestone cat-eyes, polarized aviators. Candy wore them for fun, for dress-up, and when she needed to feel serious. She wore the serious glasses a lot now. Would Grammy Barnes approve of her decisions about Max? 

     At work, Candy displayed a soft touch with her customers, literally and linguistically. A purchase of eyeglasses is an intimate experience. When gently placing the product on the customer’s head, Candy always added a slight stroke at the temples. And a warm word.

     “You look ready for the beach at St. Tropez.”

     “Is that in Florida?”

     “Somewhere around there.”

     “Do the bifocals make me seem fuddy-duddy? Maybe I should get the progressives.”

     “No, on the contrary. I was thinking the traditional bifocal line adds some gravitas.”

     Candy decided to put little Max in the daycare at the mall. No choice really. She couldn’t afford anything else and Social Security was years away. She was afraid that Max would get expelled for biting or throwing toys. He liked to throw stuff out of his crib. And he never spoke. Age two and a half and Max hadn’t uttered a single word to Candy or the bearded caseworker, whose name was ‘Bill’. 

     “Should I be worried about that?” Candy asked.

     “Let’s give it a while longer,” Bill said.

     “Would you like something to drink, a glass of sun tea?”

     “Yes, thank you, ma’am. I’m parched.”

      They sat out on the porch and shared a cold drink. It became a habit. Bill had come by the house several times now. Max crawled around and eyed him, turning slowly left and right, as if the toddler had the world under observation too, and felt speechless at the sorry state of affairs. Or rather, Max spoke out with his eyes, big blue discs, astonished and perplexed. Twice, Max reached up and yanked at Bill’s red beard. Ouch. Somehow he took it in stride.

     “I hung a photo of his mother on the wall beside the changing table,” Candy said, “but he doesn’t seem to recognize her.”

     Bill said, “I notice that you never use his mother’s name.”

     “I’m trying to forget her. It’s awful, but otherwise I just couldn’t cope.”

     Bill murmured something far down in his throat and thumped his chest.

     Candy added, “The truth is, I’m really mad at myself.”

     Bill nodded and said, “Been there, done that. Try hanging a photo of yourself with Max’s mother. And also one of his young dad.”

     “That’s a good idea, thanks,” she said, “How’s it going with the gamer in your basement?”

     “Obsessed with Grand Theft Auto and a webcam site that streams the daily existence of a guy crossing the Atlantic ocean in a barrel.”

     “Say what?” Candy asked.

     “You heard it right,” Bill said.

     “My Grammy Barnes used to complain that the world was passing her by. And I never really understood that until now.”

     “I’ve been feeling some compassion for the dinosaurs too,” Bill agreed.

     Bless his heart, little Max did okay in the daycare. He was content to sit in the corner and watch the other kids play, occasionally lobbing a stuffed animal at them. 

     “Somehow he knows this has to work out, or else we’re in big trouble,” Candy said to Bill, when he came to inspect the daycare. “He still isn’t talking, by the way.”

     Bill shrugged and said, “Nature gives us the first couple years of life to experience basic human connection, before language comes along and screws everything up.”

     “So… he’s enjoying it while he can,” Candy said.

     “Exactly, while he’s got someone who really cares for him,” Bill said.

    “Hey, you’re sweet,” Candy said. And Bill was sweet, sort of, in an affable lunkhead manner that hinted at scar tissue not far underneath and that Candy had been assiduously avoiding ever since her lunkhead husband abandoned her. In the minus column, Bill sported pathetic, drugstore readers. 

     He surprised her with a come-on. He turned to Max and said, “Kid, your grandma is hot.”

     Max blinked his blue eyes. Candy blushed and said, “Bill, I know you mean that as a compliment, but I’m not sure it’s really appropriate, you know, given the situation with your agency.”

     “Sorry, you’re absolutely right,” Bill said. “Please don’t tell my supervisor.”

     “Is he the one who called to tell me that my daughter has run away from the recovery center?”

     “Yeah, that’s one. I couldn’t bear to tell you myself. Have you heard anything from her?”

     Candy shook her head. “I’ve resigned myself to the fact that the next thing I’ll hear is that she’s overdosed.”

     Her daughter had been missing for over a week. Nothing, no requests for money. Even Gator claimed to know nothing. It was scary. Candy lit votive candles on the dresser at night and grew clingy with Max, allowing him to sleep in her bed. She did not tell Bill about that. At the store, she experienced some unsettling, hallucinatory encounters with former selves. Weirdly personal. She’d be sitting with a young customer and suddenly see herself in the person’s face. A mirror reflection at an earlier age, all hyped up about a band, weekends in roadie mode, hitching a ride to the casino bar in the equipment van. It got worse when sparkly floaters started to appear at the edge of her vision. She offered unsolicited advice to her customers.

     “Can I make a recommendation?’ Candy said.

     “Sure, go ahead,” the customer said, thinking it was about eyeglasses.

     “Don’t ever gamble with the rent money.”

     “What do you mean?”

     Someone filed a complaint with her office manager, who knew the situation with Max and was tolerant enough to give Candy the rest of the week off. News of the overdose came two days later, after a night of hailstorms. Her daughter’s body was found in a dumpster where she had taken shelter. The news cracked Candy’s armor of anger, and she cried for hours, while Max stared quizzically at her from his crib. His blue eyes pleading, “What’s going on? I’m the one who’s supposed to cry, not you.” 

     Candy’s friends rallied and brought food. Sheila, in her frayed, flowery bathrobe, came over and kept the coffee on and helped write an obituary and organized a memorial at the funeral home. 

     “Do you want to include the story of our girls building the chicken coop in your backyard?” Sheila asked.

     “Yes, that’s a good one,” Candy said.

     “How about playing on the high school softball team?”

     “They won the sectional championship her junior year, before she dropped out,” Candy said.

     “Who should we list as survivors, do you want to mention her biological dad?” Sheila asked.

     “Her sperm donor, you mean. No, please, no mention of him,” Candy said, “I don’t want him to read the obit and show up at the funeral home.”

     The chances were slight, but it was hard not to stress about that ghost re-appearing. What if the sperm donor wanted to claim grandparent rights? Or get back together with Candy? Or even worse, what if Candy felt so overwhelmed at the prospect of raising Max alone that she would actually entertain the idea? Bad form. A violation of her pact with Sheila not to date handymen just to get the grass cut. 

     The gathering at the funeral parlor was sparse. Sheila and Gator and two people from Candy’s yoga class and a staff person from the recovery center. The officiant was a pastor who had known the deceased during her brief forays to the local church. Gator performed a memorial rap. And there was a mystery man at the back, in a trench coat and cheap sunglasses. It was Bill. The mystery being, why had he come?

     “I’m not here as a caseworker,” he said, grasping Candy’s hand in the receiving line. “I’m here as a friend. I’m here as another single parent with an only child. I’m here because I understand what you’re suffering.”

     Sheila elbowed Candy and whispered, “For chrissakes, invite him to the reception.”

     The reception being a box of Krispy Kremes and coffee in Candy’s kitchen. She also prepared a bowl of Grammy Barnes’ sweet-carrot salad, featuring mandarin oranges and tiny marshmallows. Gator goofed around with Max in the corner playpen. Max distracted them with a rolling happy-baby pose and silly-guy Gator copied it.  

     “What’s the latest on your son and the webcam barrel traveler in the ocean?” Candy asked.

     Bill said, “It’s taking him longer than expected. The currents shifted and the man is running out of food and the livefeed followers are taking up a collection for him.”

     Sheila said, “Webcams are a popular thing. We should set one up here. A ‘Raising Max’ webcam. I bet we could get a lot of followers.” 

     “People watching every day to see when Max speaks his first word.”

     “And shows off another happy-baby pose.” 

     Candy laughed. It sort of hurt to laugh, but in a good way.

    They chatted about devising a method for Max’s site to provide remote babysitting. What started as a light-hearted fantasy slowly shifted to a serious discussion. Perhaps advertising dollars could be invested in a college fund.

     “Whadya think, Max?” Candy said.

     “Do you want to grow up as a reality TV star?” Sheila asked.

     In the corner, Max blinked and grabbed for a pair of Grammy Barnes’ glasses that Candy had put in the playpen as a toy. He carefully rested the frames on his stubby nose and squinted at the big people, as if that could help bring them into focus.

     Candy went back to work the following week. Slowly, life on Bridge Street returned to some version of time-passes normal. It took a lot of deep breathing and floor twists. It took a lot for Candy to resist blaming herself. With her daughter’s death, Candy and Max were no longer on the caseload at Bill’s agency, so he had no official reason to visit. They texted occasionally. Bill sent links to grief support podcasts. With Gator’s consent, a lawyer took over the formal adoption process. 

     Candy felt lonely and lapsed into thoughts about cutting. A stress-relief method learned from her daughter. It was one of the earliest warning signs, back in junior high. Candy grieved for her misguided daughter and every time someone said, “she’s in a better place,” ouch, Candy wanted to break something. She forced herself to heed Sheila’s advice about not making any big decisions for at least six months after a major loss. 

     Candy enlisted Sheila to explain to Bill, “I’m afraid that includes not starting anything new with a guy, at least for now.”

     “Understood. It’s up to her,” Bill said. They were standing outside on the slushy sidewalk. “I wanted you to know that I quit my job, so there would be no gray area. I’m driving a school bus now.”

     “Guess I’d rather be safe than sorry,” Candy said, from up on the porch, which apparently was not what he wanted to hear. And not what she really wanted to say. “At least for six months,” she added.

     Sheila added, “I think she means that in a positive way.”

     “Right, I get it,” Bill said, ruefully.

     Candy didn’t see him for six months, but she didn’t forget about him either. Sheila did some online, background snooping on Bill, just to know if there were any red flags. Most everything checked out, no gaps in the resume, no priors. There was one puzzling discovery. The kid in the basement did not exist, or rather, yes, Bill did have a gamer son, but the son had died of a fentanyl overdose three years ago. For whatever reason, it seemed Bill still spoke about him in the present tense. Sheila thought this was a red flag. At first, Candy did too, but, gradually, she sort of understood how that could happen.

     Max settled down a bit and stopped yanking the cat’s tail. He occasionally pulled on a baseball cap that Bill had left at the house. The brim slipped down and covered his face and he pulled it up to pay peek-a-boo. In fact, his first spoken word was “peek.” He also frequently pointed to the photo of his late mother with Candy on the shelf by his crib, and one Saturday in mid-November, he spoke his second word, “shoe.” Gator showed up semi-regularly to babysit, while Candy went out grocery shopping and ran errands. 

     Toward the end of December, during a snowstorm, Bill appeared suddenly at the optician store, without any advance notice. It was just before closing time. He sat down on the stool in front of Candy’s counter. He brushed snow off his head and shoulders. She didn’t recognize him at first. He had shaved off his beard. So Max wouldn’t tug on it? For a moment, Candy felt a pang of irrational jealousy that Bill missed Max more than her. 

     Candy sucked in a deep breath and asked, “May I help you?”

     “It’s been six months,” Bill said.

     “Almost to the minute,” she said.

     “I need new glasses. My cheapo readers are terrible,” he said, “and they scratch too easily.”

     “I’m glad you can be the one to say it.”

     “I need a new look,” Bill said, and stared at himself in the oval mirrors.

     “Something… more Elton John?” 

     “I’ve heard that a person’s eyes can be a diagnostic window, you know, like medically,” Bill said.

     “What do you mean?”

     “For diseases and stuff.”

     “Can be, yes.”

     “Can you look into my eyes and diagnose what’s wrong with me?” he asked.

     Candy leaned over and peered into his left eye. She sighed and shifted her position to peer into his right eye.

     “Do you see anything?”

     “Absolutely, the problem is very clear.”

     “What is it?”

     “You can’t get me and Max out of your head.”

     Bill laughed and reached up and they hugged across the counter and knocked some demo gear onto the floor.

     “Let’s go rescue the kid from daycare,” Candy said.

     They cleaned up the stuff on the floor. Candy took Bill’s hand and led him back through the break room and down the narrow hallway to the daycare center. It was noisy, end-of-the-day noisy. They spotted Max in his corner. The toddler stood up, a bit wobbly, and did a quick double-take, but otherwise appeared unfazed. He threw a stuffed tiger at Bill. 

Ian Woollen has recent short fiction at Panorama, Millennial Pulp, OxMag, and forthcoming at Amarillo Bay.

‘Paris of the East’

Juan Sebastian Restrepo(zeb) is a Florida-based artist known for his paintings and drawings that explore the interplay between memory and storytelling. He holds an MFA from Southern Illinois University Edwardsville and a BFA from Pratt Institute. His recent exhibitions include “intersections” at New World Gallery (2023) and “Hybridity” at the Edwardsville Arts Center (2018). Upcoming solo shows include “No Further Expectations Beyond this Night” at The Art and Culture Center/Hollywood (2024) and “multitasking” at [NAME] Publications in Miami, FL (2024). Restrepo also teaches as an Adjunct Faculty member at Florida International University and Miami Dade College.

Paris of the East

Prepare me the Renaissance. Almost always true is the bare-chested Sun-stirring Americana fever  

Drenched as well till knee-deep in the sweat 

Of summer. Or perhaps the cold-as-spite bite on your cheeks 

On a Parisian evening, evening streets or 

Evening tea at the downtown Inn 

‘Twixt the sheets our thighs, your collar, spilt 

With sunlight like a hazy projection in the  

Electric theater where I first saw you. 

In the air of respected sex and gender 

I gape open my mouth, will you see that three-lettered word they carved  Into my tongue? In the Paris of the East 

Where our only soft evening-airs come from the 

Electric fan and the culture’s what you make of it 

But lack of comprehension and two holed shoes are ever your only tools Tunnels of bones is all I’ve had to bury to be like you. 

Are you from here or do I yearn for you or have you yearned like me To depart the Paris of the East, churchyard I went far, in the black dirt knee-deep. They make you monstrous before a spectacle,  

pinch the skin I scrub for stunning showmanship on the 

Alpines, cliffsides, or the undying riveras chronicled in the likewise undying art. 

The worser weather here, with the chipping varnish, 

the dense exhalation and  

My cheap and starving body and false teeth and no personified 

Dream to hold me and more importantly no strolling on those 

Evening streets where I am predestined to be happy 

I would lose their affections to be the exception of this empty cave Or what they like to call the Paris of the East 

To see the Eiffel, or the Mavericks I call like-minded 

Having the so hollowed-out cheeks I crave, and their smiles I covet Prompted by the high-rise gym I’ll die nearly every day in. 

Fate, I’ll cut you up and swallow your golden guts the ones 

That makes ambition prophetic and gleaming, too. 

Paris, I know you by proxy. I’ve seen your Christmas markets a mile an hour And the ambient jazz that enchants me into desirability. I love your old folks And they will love me, and will cherish the stories 

Of before I bit the tendrils of the Paris of the East 

In speaking for me, don’t show me the golden ticket I know exists I’d swim the Seine like an infectious kiss in all that  

I found glorious. All that I found would haloize this suitably 

Svelte waist and hollow cheeks, or the doe-eyes plus the allure of untethered threads And more and more tantalizing nakedness that makes artful ambition prophetic.

Feng Kok is a aspiring writer based in Malaysia, currently honing my craft as he approaches the end of high school. When he is not writing, he is studying for his IGCSE exams and enjoy reading, watching movies, and consuming other forms of storytelling

‘POMEGRANATE’ & Assorted Poems

Anna Karakalou is a Illustrator, creative director and scenic artist. She have worked in the film industry for 20+ years. She currently teaches Illustration and Sequential Arts at VCU.

POMEGRANATE 

I never knew I was a woman, 

until I ate the pomegranate.

Five,

I pick my nose and burp at crows,

my legs are merriments of cartoon band-aid bruises,

my arms marked by bug bites and mud pie galore. 

What are cooties?

Collecting frog bones, 

a trophy of my morbid accomplishment.

Squishing ketchup packets to decorate my bare fries,

there was no such thing as time. 

Ten, 

I mastered air guitar solos, traded sillybandz, 

wore monster pajamas under my uniform polo shirts,

wizard—vampire tournament during recess.

Please, friend, won’t you smile at me?

Distributing pizza slices on park benches,

the cheese oozes like Goosebumps slime.

Afternoons—

with long haired Patrick and brace face Abraham,

scraping our knees on concrete parking lots,

my skateboard fractured when I hit the ground.

I never knew I was a woman, 

until I ate the pomegranate.

Fifteen, 

I spent my time debating God as if he could hear me.

My body,

blossomed from spring to winter,

unconsenting. 

I was not aware of the skin I housed;

the implications that arrived giftwrapped,

and expectations greeted by strangers.

You’re a young lady now, behave like one.

Banquet dinner, fertility fruit appetizers.

no meal can complement,

the snow mint toothpaste, 

upon consuming a pomegranate. 

Twenty, 

Avoiding reflections in public bathroom;

a reminder that I do not belong.

Not on planet Venus nor planet Mars.

I sprinkled dandruff flakes of parmesan cheese,

on scrambled vermillion meatballs, 

they cruised slowly on angel haired noodles. 

Let's see how long I survive with one meal a day.

Becoming an enigma to myself, 

I snort chunks of humanity, 

until,

I can convince myself 

that I am still a person.

I never knew I was a woman, 

until I ate the pomegranate

BODY GIRL GHAZAL

What did mother say, eyes pensively grey, lightning bolt veins protruding,

through the corners of her wrinkled with age skin, “What happened to my little girl?”

As the music grew louder, hopscotch became powder, cracking carrot colored pill bottles,

Trading cheap beer for cigarettes, donating fist punches in mosh pit circles, violent girl.

When I shaved my hair, mother could not bear, then I bit my flesh torn fingernails, sneezed

 waterfall spit above incandescent birthday flames, “That is not ladylike, you are a gross girl.”

At the clear faced mirror, exhibiting plaid boxer shorts, enveloping forest grown legs, 

pulverize my chest in beige bandages, plum box bruises, flooding my ribcage, hurt girl. 

I stand, between wasteland body and mental benzene plastic, corduroy skin- twist the gears, windup toy, marching to the thump of your heart, mother protests “You don’t look like a girl!”

You supposed that is true, as shades of indigo and verdant possess, the ardor of my precarious being, I— prescribed female at birth, have never been a girl.

GIRLHOOD 

I sat there without my underwear, 

I felt my white lace dress caressing the back of my thighs

and stayed on the seat dripping

Blood.

I thought that’s how girlhood was supposed to go.

You just give and give 

Until your body is at the brink of collapse. 

Until your own blood becomes a foreign substance 

And the world holds it at the palm of its hand

Because it is theirs to claim.

Your girlhood is their plastic wrapped candy.

THE PUB ON 2ND AVE 

I am the beast, disfigured,

with my barren tongue and dead beam unsettling wet eyes.

The mirror cracked images,

shards of glass trickling over my boney knuckles.

Narrow walls quivering,

I felt my heartbeat drumming through my throat 

as the nauseating sweat ingests my pores.

The stench of my day is one breath away, 

my mouth full of absinthian spit and silver iron.

The room convulses like an epileptic performing an embalming ritual.

Bodies hovering over microphone speakers, 

the screech of leather boots conversating on the floor tiles. 

The bathroom has exhausted opportunities,

a sink trailing of snuff cocaine, pop colored graffiti adorning the vulnerable toilet. 

Cheap beer glasses shivering on the pub counter,

next to the scattered, crumbled dollar bills, a junkie's annual collection of pocket change.

The cigarette smoke shrouding over the pool table, embalms me, 

the ash sprinkled out like an interrupted ant pile.

A red head in smudged pink lipstick plants one on ripped leather jacket with a heart tattoo 

the name ‘Mabel’ written inside.

The cluster crowd, emitting friendly punches, slamming spines against each other.

Exchanging odors and fingernail samples for fragments of hedonistic pleasure. 

I am desensitized to pain, as my blood drips like raindrops against car windows, 

trailing down fever dream teeth.

Around the mosh pit cameras flashed on torn t-shirts, studded belts, 

amethyst bruised faces, popsicle dripped vomit on denim pants.

Devouring my busted lip, I heard the voice of God reprimand me;

Don’t become accustomed to the taste of your own agony.

SPIDER

My mother is everywhere 

With her silken web 

She creates a culture of fear

Spreading across from person to person.

Each face becomes an 

Extension of her

Observing and keeping me

In line. 

My mother is the spider

Wrapping me- spinning silk around me 

Keeping me hostage to her web 

Her legs can feel every movement I make. 

My mother is the spider 

The silk queen

Capturing my image in her eight blinded eyes 

Breathing death and pestilence on my shoulders.

I’ve been wrapped in the silk egg

For longer than I expected 

I have outgrown my welcome. 

Kathleen Pedraza is a graduate student of English Literature at Florida International University. Pedraza’s passion for poetry stems from a deep fascination with the complexities of the human experience—the interplay of beauty and discomfort that life often presents. In her writing, she explores the nuances of emotion, mental health, and the contradictions that define our identity. Pedraza is drawn to the moments that are both fleeting and profound, capturing the essence of what it means to be human.

‘A Letter to the Newly Chronically’

JD Baez, a self-taught visual artist from Brooklyn, blends classical realism with contemporary emotions. Inspired by Baroque masters, his art captures dramatic light and shadow, creating authentic, three-dimensional scenes. JD's work reflects his journey through fatherhood and cultural experiences, exploring human connection and emotional depth. Through his online profile, he shares how art serves as a tool for emotional, mental, and financial empowerment, fostering creative expression.

A Letter to the Newly Chronically

Hey, 

You’re not going to understand this at first. 

You’ll keep asking yourself why your body feels like it’s betraying you, Why the simplest things are so hard, 

Why you’re so tired all the time. 

It’s not going to make sense. 

You’ll think it’s just a phase— 

something you’ll grow out of. 

Spoiler: you don’t. 

You’ll be 13, lying in bed, 

Wondering why it hurts to breathe, 

why your joints feel like they’re grinding into dust. 

You’ll look around and see your friends running, jumping, 

Living. 

And you’ll wonder why you can’t. 

I wish I could say it gets easier. 

But the truth? 

It doesn’t. 

Not really. 

You’ll learn to live with it, though. 

The pain, 

the exhaustion, 

the way your muscles ache like they’ve been carrying the weight of the world. You’ll figure out how to make it through the day 

even when it feels like your body’s collapsing under you. 

I know you want to scream, 

To break something, 

to run until you forget you have a body at all. 

But you can’t. 

And that’s the hardest part, isn’t it? 

The knowing you’re trapped inside something that doesn’t listen to you anymore. 

You’ll lose count of the times someone will say, 

"You look fine,"

like the fact that they can’t see it means it’s not real. 

Like pain has to leave scars to exist. 

You’ll get tired of explaining, 

tired of trying to prove that what you feel is real 

when no one believes you. 

But listen, 

this is important— 

it’s not your fault. 

You’ll blame yourself. 

You’ll wonder if maybe you could’ve done something differently, eaten better, moved more, rested more, 

but none of that changes the fact that sometimes bodies break and there’s nothing you can do but live in the aftermath. 

It’s okay to be angry about that. 

It’s okay to be sad about that. 

You don’t have to be strong all the time. 

Some days you’ll hate your body. 

Some days you’ll hate the world for moving so fast when you can barely keep up. But you’ll also learn to be gentle with yourself, 

to celebrate the small victories, 

like getting out of bed, 

like walking a little farther than you did yesterday. 

I know you’re scared. 

I know you don’t know how to live like this. 

But you will. 

You’ll learn how to make space for the pain, 

how to survive inside a body that doesn’t always feel like home. 

It’s not going to be easy. 

But you’ll get through it. 

You’re stronger than you think, 

even when you feel like you’re falling apart. 

And maybe, one day, 

you’ll find peace in knowing that even broken things can be beautiful.

Aaron McDaniel (He/They) is a writer, reader, painter, nature lover, baker, seamstress, button collector, and much more. However he is also a young person learning to navigate the world while living with chronic pain and fatigue, mental illness and a physical disability.

‘Lap of Luxury’, ‘Selfie’ & ‘Silent Slang’

David Person

Lap of Luxury

My Cornish Rex, Imp, audits me with tameless acumen,
methodically digesting my pummeled bubble half-ponytail,
Japanese gin-varnished frilly denim, fatigued winged eyeliner,
a zingaro puddle of Prada Ocean perfume, sneaky nail file knives,
rumpled wine shop receipts, half-omitted bottles of green coffee pills,
lethal lipsticks all blabbing from the grained lambskin crossbody
I propelled leglessly onto the cream wool shag upon pickled entry.

Not all cats love catnips. They can’t taste the sweets they covet;
they sweat through the eighteen toes on their paws.
They boast three eyelids and heal themselves by purring.
Imp chatters spookily at the snail kites and little blue herons
who stop to freshen their drowsy wings on the branches
outside our cut stone patio. He is learning symbiosis
and the value of left-pawed high fives toward earning
freeze-dried minnows and mashed banana tuna treats.
He is also learning to interpret my condensation,
decoding my acute angles as I repent into Icelandic pillows.

Selfie

Shifting focus from the sharp skim of my cheekbone,
I direct my Galaxy Violet-dyed gaze
at the self-starting audience,
taking aim at their underfed hearts
with an unstable shotgun smile painted preppy red.
Rose gold gloss chastened into fishtails,
italicized with astute snowdrop ribbons.
Reheated champagne blush of electric fireplace
adorns the whittled tangents of my face,
glorifying my inner Ann-Margret in watercolor feathers
and tropical garden tiaras, searing cardinal lace.

Silent Slang

And where were you last moonbow—
hollowing out your dead larkspurs,
baking in the peony perfume?

Jeweled chiffon lights dress up your drunken cottage,
its spirited hearth soothing the turquoise forest.
Your lavish phoenix hair croons with promised secrets.

The rooftop roseate tern preens its pink wingbeats,
epitomized with a little black cap, festooned forked tail,
the puckish dexterity to enunciate black suns to serpentine seraphim.

I marvel at where it will murmur its secret garden adagio
full of lethargic leisure and fluid deflowering
come guttural gunmetal Christmas snow squalls,
the glaciating of the blue spruce,
a desensitized December sunset in Naptown.

Megan Denese Mealor resides in Jacksonville, Florida with her husband and 11-year-old son, who was diagnosed with autism at age three. Nominated three times for the Pushcart Prize as well as the 2023 Best of the Net, her writing has been featured in literary journals worldwide, most recently Bar Bar, The GroundUp, and Down in the Dirt. She has also authored three full-length poetry collections: Bipolar Lexicon (Unsolicited Press, 2018); Blatherskite (Clare Songbirds Publishing House, 2019); and A Mourning Dove’s Wishbone (Cyberwit, 2022). A lifelong survivor of bipolar disorder, Megan’s main mission as a writer is to inspire others feeling stigmatized for their mental health.

‘The Lion’s Last Roar’

Muhammad Habibat Sani is a Nigerian poet, journalist, photographer and activist. She was the runner-up at the Sokoto Book and Art Festival Poetry Slam Competition (SOBAFEST). Her work has been published on Synchronized Chaos. She can be found on Facebook as @MuhammadHabibatSani (UmmuYasmeen) and on Instagram as @Ummu.yasmeen1. and on twitter @MUHAMMAD SANI HABIBAT.

The Lion’s Last Roar

Storm clouds gather,

and we just stagger.

A dictator will invigorate,

a conquest of terror built on hate.

When the world gets tough,

peace keeping isn’t always enough.

Where the sunflowers grow,

we failed to put on a show.

Abandoned them to fight

a dictator's ferocious full might.

I wonder if our fathers could see

our blatant hypocrisy.

Would they stand with pride and say,

how proud they are of us today?

Or in their graves would they roll,

and wonder why they paid such toll?

Wonder why they died.

Wonder why we haven’t tried.

Far away, hyenas wait,

for a battle they would instigate.

An old lion sleeping,

perhaps one eye peeping.

An empire it controlled.

Now, its coat a fading gold.

Maybe it will stand once more,

and find the strength to mighty roar.

Maybe its moral will soar.

Maybe it can win for sure.

But, if the lion is too sick,

we must poke it with a stick.

This large task,

may be a fatal ask.

The lion could already be dead,

don’t let it get to your head.

Hope and faith are the paths we tread.

No time to mourn,

for there’s no guarantee of dawn.

A heart horribly torn,

is an ingredient well worn,

for a lion cub to be born.

Although the father may rot,

the cub will do what he could not.

In this poem my emotions I hide,

but it’s not for me to decide.

You control the lion’s fate,

don’t worry, you'll do great.

But you haven’t long to wait.

The hyenas circle ever tighter.

Tell me, will we be a fighter?

Jake Wright is a fourth year biology student at UBCO pursuing a minor in creative writing. When He's not writing, he's usually gaming, crying over university, or skiing.

‘SERVANT’

Rie Sheridan Rose's photography appeared in Constellations; Thoughtful Dog; the Ladies of Horror Flash Project; Passed Note Review; Ghostlight: Magazine of Terror; and Lumen. She keeps a camera with her at all times. She is a member of the HWA, SFWA, and SFPA.

SERVANT

Malcolm needed to get well.

Every day he got up and repeated it and every day he ignored it. It reminded him how people said every day that they were going to change their lives, but never did, just got up and did the same thing as yesterday. But this was actually the time. He was out of money, out of favors. If he didn’t get clean now he was going to end up dead. This was his last chance. 

Just this one last time and then he’d be clean.

Malcolm filled a glass with water and stuck the needle in, drawing some out. He pushed it out hard and did it again, just to make sure it was clean, convinced no obstructions resided within. He took more water out, put it on the spoon, and added the heroin to it. Then he took out his Zippo and flicked the flint wheel, placing it on the counter and letting it burn. Malcolm hovered the spoon over the flame till the water bubbled and hissed. 

The spoon was folded over and blackened from overuse, the dope simmering like a stew. Malcolm dropped a small ball of cotton in the spoon and it soaked up the water, turning dirty brown. He stuck the needle in the cotton and drew the dope into the syringe. Malcolm looked at the barrel and flicked it, air bubbles rising. He pushed the plunger with the barest touch and a dribble came out of the tip, clearing the barrel of any bubbles. 

Then he took the belt and wrapped it around his bicep, squeezing tight, the belt in his mouth. He slapped his arm and looked for entry, pockmarked with sores and collapsed veins. He picked up the syringe and hit a vein with the needle, pulled the plunger and watched the blood unfurl in the barrel like some kind of octopus dancing through the ocean. He pushed the plunger down steady and ejected the needle, loosening the belt. 

It hit him at once——the taste, the rush. 

Warm, curdled blood turned hot and silky, slithering down his veins in a mad dash to the brain, lighting up dopamine receptors like a pinball machine. It was good shit, better than he’d had in a while. Malcolm swallowed and his eyes felt heavy as if something were dragging them down. His arm had a bead of blood and he wiped it away with a finger, smudging it in the crook of his elbow. 

A forlorn sense of regret swept up like wind, brushing up against him. He was sad this was his last time, but also hating himself for doing this. It fucked him up, body and mind, made him feel like he wasn’t a person, but it wasn’t his fault. The heroin helped. It cauterized the wounds inside, made it so he could live every day without wanting to die.

Malcolm stood up and went to the sink and washed his hands. He’d be good for a while——the dope potent and fresh in his veins——but he needed a plan for when he came down. So he went into the bedroom, opened a notebook, and sat on his bed. The pen scratched the paper, doodling, his mind coming undone like carbonated soda, effervescent with the potency of actionable plans within his grasp. The heroin cradled his ambition like a newborn baby, stroking it and mewling over the cuteness until he fell asleep and didn’t wake up for twelve hours.

#

Stripes of sunlight peeked through venetian blinds. Malcolm opened his gummy eyes, rolled over and knuckled the grit nestled in the corners. His mouth tasted like boogers and he hawked up phlegm and spat it into a tissue. He took a cigarette out of the pack on the nightstand and patted his pocket, but the Zippo wasn’t there. 

Malcolm got up and went into the kitchen, the Zippo laying open on the counter. He picked it up, flicked the flint wheel, but it wouldn’t light, just sparked, ineffective. It was open on the counter, so he probably forgot to turn it off. He sighed, went to the stove and turned the burner on, dipping his face to the flame. The cigarette glowed, smoke gushing down his lungs, gas from the stove snaking up his nose. He inhaled and held it, looking through the window over the sink.

The glass was dirty and stained. Steam rose from the streets like the smoke he exhaled. The sink was full of dishes, counter scattered with junk. The kitchen tiles were old and chipped. The crook of his elbow itched with longing, that pleasant prick and the needle releasing itself into his bloodstream like a proboscis, but he couldn’t. He told himself no, it wasn’t him, not anymore. 

Malcolm sucked the cigarette and tried to think about living sober, a thread of smoke rising to the ceiling. He was a junkie, but he didn’t have to be. People came out of addiction every day. It wasn’t easy, but they did it. You had to fight, square up and confront the inadequacies. Once he got over the heroin there’d be time to be useful again. He wanted to be proud of himself, of the resolve he knew he had within him. The embarrassment of becoming a junkie was a vicious hit to his self-esteem, but he’d gotten through worse and he’d get through this.

The phone rang and he walked into the bedroom, picked it up off the nightstand. Work was calling. He was late for the second time this week and already on thin ice. 

#

Malcolm got to work over an hour late. He didn’t feel very good because he knew he’d start getting sick soon and then he’d have to fix quick. If he didn’t, he’d be in a world of hurt and that’d really fuck up his plans at rehabilitation.

His boss yelled at him when he walked in, told him strike two and if he didn’t get his shit together then he was going to shitcan him. Malcolm took the scolding with an ache between his eyes. He squeezed the bridge of his nose, dry swallowed aspirin in the first aid kit, and started taking tables. 

He handed out laminated menus rife with oily fingerprints. People ordered drinks and asked questions and complained, Malcolm taking care of it all because that was his job. The aroma of cooked meat wafted across the room and through the tables, mouths slavering like animals. One of his tables left a shit tip and it pissed him off because he busted his ass, checked on them three times and why did people go out if they were going to do shit like this? But he kept his head up, forgot about it, focusing on the work. His head still hurt and the craving was there but he ignored it, kept working. A kid threw up at one of his tables and the place smelled rancid, curdled milk ruining appetites. Malcolm was there when it happened so he cleaned it up, gave the kid a ginger ale, told him it would settle his stomach. The mother thanked him, but Malcolm shook her off and when he came back the kid was feeling better. The mother thanked him on their way out and Malcolm smiled, went to the table. He’d gotten a good tip and it made him feel better.

A car blared a horn outside, steady for about five seconds, and two teenagers ran outside, jumped in the car, and drove off. He went over to the table and looked at the check. They didn’t pay. Malcolm’s heart sank and he squeezed the check in his hand, sharp crinkles pressing into the skin. It pissed him off and he wanted to fix, but he couldn’t, needed to be good. This day had been pretty shit, wasn’t even half over, but Malcolm was determined to hang in, to be somebody he could be proud of. 

A regular sat at the bar and bit into his cheeseburger, masticated over and over like steerage in the pasture. Malcolm stared and the man looked at him and he looked away, tucking a lock of hair behind his ear, self-conscious. Maybe it was hypnotic and maybe it wasn’t. Maybe he was just a junkie getting sick, his brain frying like an egg.

The day was long. He was tired and sweaty, but Malcolm wouldn’t let himself back down. Eventually it was over and Malcolm walked away with eighty-three dollars cash. He went into the kitchen and filled out his chart for the day. His boss talked some more shit when he punched out. Malcolm made like he was sorry and slinked out the back. 

He stumbled between the buildings, his eyes on the people crossing back and forth at the mouth of the alley, a thudding in his head like a heart. He didn’t exactly know why he did it, but he did. He took out his phone and hit up Drax and set a meet. Drax was one of the dealers he used. He was hit-or-miss. Sometimes he’d short you, but sometimes he’d be on it. Malcolm didn’t think too highly of him. He was a shitbag and sometimes he’d fuck you, but when you were a junkie you didn’t really have much of a choice and these guys knew it. They knew you’d be crawling back to them at some point or another and even if they’d fucked you, you wouldn’t give them any shit because you needed them or else you’d be getting sick and then you’d really be fucked.

Malcolm took the subway down to the East Village and walked down to 7th avenue and puked in a trash barrel. He wiped the vomit from his mouth, cleaned it on his pants. Refuse lined the curbs, the stench of city living ripe like rotten fruit. Malcolm hawked up phlegm and spat on a trash bag, turning the corner and seeing Drax’s car parked beneath a gnarled tree. Malcolm tapped on the hood and bent down, looking in the window. Drax turned and flicked his head upward, Malcolm waving. He unlocked the car and Malcolm got in.

Drax wore a doo rag, his hoodie too big and his pants floating around him like a bathing suit. A scraggly beard dotted his jawline, a pimple on his lip like a volcano ready to blow, his face shiny with grease. They bumped fists and he said, “What you need?”

“Half gram,” Malcolm said.

Drax dug in his pocket, but Malcolm stopped him.

“Could you weigh it out in front of me?”

Drax stopped and straightened out, looking at him. Malcolm looked back. “What? You don’t trust me, dog?”

“No, not at all. It’s not that. It’s just you shorted me last time and I’d just like to be sure everything’s good this time around.”

Drax frowned. “Short? I don’t short people, dog.”

“Listen, I don’t care that you shorted me. I owe you money. I get it. I’d short me too if I were you. But I really need my money’s worth this time. You give me a half gram straight and I’ll give you what I have on me.”

“Or you could give me what you have on you and get the fuck outta my car.”

Drax reached behind him and pulled out a pistol, laying it on his knee. Malcolm looked at Drax and the gun and then Drax again. His skin prickled with anxiety and Malcolm really wished that he’d kept his mouth shut, but he couldn’t let him see that, needed to be cool.

He lifted up his hands, hurt and surprised. “The fuck is this? You do me like this?” 

“I don’t know who the fuck you think you are thinkin’ you can say whatever the fuck come into that junkie brain of yours, but I don’t short people, motherfucker. I been straight with you, bitch, and you try and make me look like some piece of shit that short people or something.”

“I didn’t say any of that, Drax. Come on, man. You got it wrong. I was just being real with you, man. You shorted me. Not a big deal. But I’m not gonna pretend like it didn’t happen.”

Drax adjusted the grip on his gun and Malcolm’s heart flared. He felt sweaty, his mouth dry. He imagined him raising the gun and blowing him away right here, right now, his body wracked by a fusillade of bullets, ribbons of blood puddling in his lap. Drax would kick him out onto the street, blood painting the sidewalk, his flesh going white like soap. Then his life would leave his eyes in a helix of light, nothing to see but inky darkness.

Malcolm swallowed and tasted vomit. He wiped his lips and Drax stared at him.

“You got it on you?”

“Got what?”

“The money, bitch.”

“Yes. Right here.”

Malcolm fished the money out of his pocket and counted eighty-three dollars. Drax proffered his hand and he gave it to him, counting it. Then he took out his scale, weighing the heroin. The sight was a near-tangible relief. Malcolm felt good, like he had power. Drax had put pressure on him, but he didn’t budge. He stood up to him and Drax respected that.

Drax showed Malcolm that a half-gram was on the scale and Malcolm nodded, smiling. Drax put it in the baggie and closed it up and pointed the gun at Malcolm’s head. Malcolm stared into the barrel feeling sick. Nerves crackled like thunderheads. He was jittery, barely breathing.

“What’re you doing, man?” Malcolm said.

“Like you said, you owe me money, bitch.”

Malcolm looked past the gun and into Drax’s eyes and they were steeled against any pleading, but he tried anyway.

“Please, man. Don’t do this. I need that really bad.”

“Oh, no doubt. Yo junkie ass gonna be pukin’ all over the place in a couple hours. But that ain’t my problem, dog. That’s something you gonna have to deal with.”

Malcolm looked at the baggie on the scale and then at the gun and Drax thumbed back the hammer. He froze like an ice sculpture. “Or you could lose your brains all over the window,” Drax said. “Up to you, dog. Either way I’m good. Get out or die.”

Malcolm got out real slow and backed up.

“Close the door, bitch!” Drax said.

He closed the door and Drax pulled away, Malcolm feeling sick. No money, no favors, and no luck.

He was fucked.

#

Malcolm walked through the door, tripped and fell. He got up, closed the door and went to the kitchen, puking in the sink. It took everything he had not to hurl on the forty-minute subway ride to Bensonhurst, shivering with cold and muscle spasms. His muscles weren’t working well, like they didn’t want to listen to his brain anymore. It felt like little tennis balls were lodged up and down his back. His eyes pulsed in their sockets. His stomach cramped and he keeled over, slumping into a chair at the table. Malcolm put his head down and the coolness soothed him some, but only for a minute. He cradled his stomach, heard it gurgle and he cramped and dry heaved right at the table, but nothing came out.

Malcolm fingered a cigarette out of the pack and labored upward. He wobbled to the stove, lit up and it helped some, but not much. He turned on the sink, sipped some water, and hit the cigarette. The buzzing in his head crisscrossed over his mind like bees in the hive. It distracted him, but not so much because things were getting bad and it wouldn’t be long before he couldn’t move anymore, so overcome with agony that it hurt to breathe. 

So Malcolm trudged to the bed and flopped down, trying to rekindle any last remnants of strength before deciding what to do. He was burning up. He stripped and lay on the bed naked, but then he was cold and he heaved blankets over his emaciated body, praying for sleep. 

Sleep came, but marked with hallucinatory dreams, his grandmother’s gnarled hands rasping over his body. She smiled at him, her face branched with wrinkles, locks of strawberry-blond hair flopped over her forehead. Her hand snaked around the back of his head and he was scared, remembering bad things, eyes closed, images materializing in the black.

Malcolm woke up shivering, soaked in sweat. It was early morning. He wiped himself off with the blanket and sat up, heart racing, old memories fading away like coronas of light behind the eyelids. He stuck a cigarette in his mouth, got dressed and went into the kitchen and lit it on the stove. 

His stomach felt shriveled and hollow, simmering with acid. He went to the fridge, took out an old, wrinkly orange, spongy in his hands. He tore it open, trembling, the fruit soft and gummy and syrupy in his fingers. He plucked off a gobbet and put it to his lips. The taste was strong and sweet and overwhelming, the acid tickling his gag reflex. Malcolm lunged for the sink and puked, little strings of bile hanging from his lips. He dropped the orange into the sink and turned on the faucet, letting the water sluice over syrupy fingers, wiping them dry on his pants. He coughed and spit, let himself breathe and regain control. He bent and slurped some water, letting it roll around in his mouth before spitting. 

The knife block in the corner caught his eye and he moved toward it. Black handles pointed at him and he pulled out a knife, stainless steel like gunmetal in the gloomy kitchen. Malcolm decided something and slipped the knife into his waistband, throwing his shirt over it. He turned and scooped the keys off the table and left, decision made.

He needed to score.

#

The air was chilly and still as if frozen molecules were suspended in the air, movement as well as time lulled in the cold. Malcolm zipped up his sweater and threw the hood over his head, the knife’s cold metal touching bare skin just above his waistline. He stalked the streets, hands buried in the muff pocket of his hoodie. 

He didn’t have any idea what to do. There was no thought that lit up like a light bulb——the panacea to this heroin problem, or lack thereof. He merely stumbled down the streets of Bensonhurst with a knife in his boxers, having no idea how he could solve this, but feeling very confident that it would involve violence. He walked to the corner of 82nd street and 21st avenue, making his way to the 18th avenue subway station. Malcolm figured he could jump on and head to Manhattan. Maybe he’d be able to find somebody to take pity on him or maybe he’d come upon an opportunity to take money.

Malcolm stopped on the corner and blew pale breath into the air, waiting for the light to turn. His stomach roiled and churned acid. He closed his eyes and focused on ignoring the pain. When he opened his eyes, it was then that he saw an old woman exit her building across the street. She was small, hunched over, wearing a heavy coat. A cane was clutched in her gnarled claw of a hand and it reminded him of his grandmother. Tiny wavelets of numbness rose up from the nape of his neck and spread out over his head. She came inching down the sidewalk, her purse hanging over her forearm. Malcolm didn’t feel very good about it, but he recognized this for the opportunity that it was. 

He crossed the street against the light and a boxy car beeped at him, hitting the gas when he was clear, leaving a trail of stinky exhaust fumes. He fell in behind her and watched her leave the sidewalk, approaching a beige vehicle, boxy in its own right, clearly from the eighties or nineties. It looked like an Oldsmobile, but Malcolm couldn’t be sure. The old woman sidled up to the car and keyed the door, wrenching it open on rusty hinges. That was when Malcolm slid the knife out of his boxers and stuck it into her armpit, making sure she could feel it. 

The old woman jumped and looked back at him, pale blue eyes sunken into craggily sockets, pouchy skin puffed up underneath.

“I don’t wanna hurt you,” he said. “I just wanna talk. So just unlock the car and sit down. Nice and easy. I just wanna chat.”

The old woman lifted her arm and looked down at the knife poking into her side. She looked back up at him with resigned eyes. She sighed and thumbed a button on the door, the locks popping up with a thunk.

“There we go,” Malcolm said. “Nice and easy, now. Don’t be stupid.”

He crept around the front of the car and the old woman watched. Malcolm popped open the passenger door and motioned for her to get inside. He looked around and saw an Asian man on the other side of the street, probably going to work. Other than that the streets were empty and cold, most of Bensonhurst not yet ready to take on the day.

Malcolm slithered inside and watched the old woman fumble into the driver’s seat. She almost fell in and Malcolm helped her, grabbing her cane and sliding it into the backseat. She thanked him and he helped her change positions before reaching out and closing the door. 

Their breath smoked in the car and she turned to him, eyes the color of an icy blue sky. “So are you gonna kill me or what?”

Malcolm frowned. “Of course not. I don’t wanna kill you. I just need some help.”

The old woman nodded as if she knew all along what this was about, perhaps had even expected it. “Well, you’re here now. What can I do for you?”

She laced her fingers on her lap and waited patiently. Her hair was done up in a kerchief and light orange hair fluffed out beneath it. Malcolm’s grandmother had strawberry-blond hair, something like a reddish-orange, and the old woman’s hair reminded him greatly of his grandmother, so much so that he needed to look away from her when he talked.

“What’s your name?” Malcolm asked.

“Dorothy,” she said.

“Well, Dorothy. I guess we’re not in Kansas any more, are we?” 

Dorothy looked at him and smiled awkwardly. “No, I suppose we’re not.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not gonna hurt you. I’m just in a bad way right now and I need your help.”

Malcolm shivered and burped, an acrid taste climbing up his throat and coating the back of his tongue. He shivered again, felt a small cramp in his calf. He grimaced and massaged it out, Dorothy observing quietly, probably putting the dots together a lot quicker than Malcolm wanted her to.

“Do you need money?” she said.

Malcolm knuckled the cramp and straightened out his leg, doing everything he could to make sure it didn’t tighten again. “As a matter of fact, I do. I don’t need it all, I’m not trying to bleed you dry or anything. I just need what you can spare. I’m sorry to do this to you, but I’m kinda at the end of my rope here. Not really sure how to go about fixin’ myself up.”

“Well, I’m sorry you’re in this position. You really don’t look too good.”

Malcolm chuckled. “No, I don’t. And I can tell you I don’t feel good either. But it is what is. I brought it on myself. And like I said, I’m sorry to do this to you. But I just don’t know...don’t know what to do.”

Dorothy watched him. Malcolm sniffled and swiped away the snot on his upper lip. He met her gaze and she didn’t look away, just watched him with something like pity. She nodded solemnly with puckered lips and snapped open the buckle on her purse, digging around inside. She pulled out her wallet and licked her thumb, pulling out two crisp hundred-dollar bills. She held them out to him and he was astonished really, just fucking blown away at the kindness this woman had bestowed upon him.

“Are you sure?” he said.

Dorothy nodded.

  “I told you I didn’t wanna bleed you dry or anything. Only what you can afford. You don’t have to give me this much. I can certainly make do with less.”

“That’s all right,” she said. “I have a feeling you’re gonna need it a lot more than I will.”

He nodded and looked at her with dewy eyes. Malcolm reached up and took the bills gently from her fingers. He looked at them in his lap and sniffed, wiping his eyes. “You don’t know how much this means to me. I’m sorry. I wish it wasn’t you that I did this too.”

“You don’t have to do anything,” she said. She leaned forward and put a hand on his forearm, squeezed, trying to comfort him. Malcolm appreciated it.

“What’s your name?” she said.

He sniffed again and watched two tears drip on the hundreds, darkening the paper like raindrops. “Malcolm,” he said softly.

“Why are you doing this, Malcolm?” she said.

He croaked a sob and shook his head slow and deliberate, eyes clenched shut and really starting to cry. “I don’t know. I wanna get better. I just don’t know how to do it.”

“Yes, you do,” Dorothy said. “You know how to get better. You’re just scared. And that’s okay, Malcolm. It’s okay to be scared. Everybody is scared of something. But just because you’re scared, doesn’t mean it’s not worth trying.”

He rubbed the pad of his thumb over Ben Franklin’s face and nodded, huffing out a breath. “I guess that’s true. My grandma used to say nothing in life worth doing is ever easy. Cuz if it was easy then everybody would do it.”

Dorothy laughed and nodded. “That’s right, Malcolm. That is too true.”

She grabbed his hand and nestled her fingers between his. He thought they would’ve felt like old leather, but they were soft, her palm puffy and smooth. His hands were cold, but she warmed them with her touch. 

He didn’t want to be the person that got up every day and said they were going to change their lives, but never did. Malcolm was better than that. And if he could just get over some of the things that were dragging him down, maybe, just maybe he could be the person that he always wanted to be and not the person that he was now.

Malcolm looked at Dorothy and her smile was genuine. She cared about him, he could tell. Maybe he just needed support from people like her and it would get him through. 

Malcolm picked up the money and handed it back to her. He picked the knife off the seat and held it in his hand, ashamed of himself. He closed his eyes and hung his head back, trying to breath, to escape the shame that covered him like a shroud. He felt Dorothy curling the money back into his left hand, reaching over and hugging him, her lips brushing his ear. “You need it more than I do,” she said.

He nodded and squeezed out tears. He leaned into her and she hugged him, her hand snaking around to the back of his neck. 

Malcolm stiffened and stopped. The hand gripped the back of his neck and he felt another hand lift his shirt and play at his navel. He was eight years old and his grandmother sat in her favorite chair. She smiled at him and fingered the strings of his pajama bottoms, her fingers real soft and warm, sending a terrible sense of dread radiating throughout his entire body. Malcolm stood still, the breath coming quick and shallow. His grandmother looked at him and brought him close. She kissed his cheek and slipped her hand into his pants. Malcolm clenched his fist and exhaled, scared and angry, angry at what she had done to him. He thrust the knife forward and buried it into her chest. 

Malcolm looked up and saw Dorothy’s pale blue eyes looking into his, her face blank. She looked at him confused, eyes staring into and beyond. The blood spilled down her chin and she coughed in his face. Malcolm flinched and clenched his eyes shut, feeling the spray of blood. He opened his eyes and saw Dorothy wheezing breaths, little blood bubbles blooming on her lips. Malcolm tugged on the knife, yanked it out of her chest, the blade slick with blood. 

“What did I do? No, what did I do?” he said.

His hands trembled and he dropped the knife, pressing his palms against the wound, the blood pumping out hot and sticky and slathering itself all over him. He looked at her face and saw her staring at the wound in her chest. She put fingers to it and they came away dabbed in crimson. Dorothy looked at him, cupped his face in her hand and smiled.

“It’s all right, Malcolm. It’s all right.”

His lips trembled with emotion. He wanted to tell her that it was an accident, that he didn’t mean it, didn’t know it was her, but nothing would come out except little gasps of breath and a whole lot of regret. Dorothy’s dewy eyes looked into him and then they weren’t, just staring into space like glass eyes, seeing nothing but the cut to black.

Malcolm cried, looking at his hands, soaked in her blood. The snot dribbled over his lips and into his mouth, tears riding down his chin and dripping onto his sweater. He leaned his head against the window and breathed a cloudy mist, dirty and opaque. His eyes drifted to the purse in her lap, the crinkled money in the foot well. The ache in his head was like a jackhammer, his entire skull vibrating with the force of it. His skin was dotted with goose bumps. He felt a peristaltic squeezing in his lower abdomen, would’ve doubled over and fell if he’d been standing. His eyes drifted to the purse in her lap, the crinkled money in the foot well. He needed to get well. 

Malcolm swallowed down the sickness, the miserable existence he called a life. He snatched the purse from her lap and stuffed the money inside. He tucked the knife into his pants, underneath the shirt, and got out of the car.

Malcolm stopped and peered inside the car, Dorothy slumped against the seat, her lap cupping a pool of blood. An overwhelming sense of regret gripped him in that brief moment, but his body’s erratic, painful sensations allowed him to surpass the regret and hold onto the desire, the need. Malcolm gripped the door and slammed it shut, leaving a bloody handprint on the window. He ran back to his apartment, a group of Hasidic Jews staring at him, confused frowns as to the muddy, maroon smudges over his front, hands buried in the cuffs. He fingered at his phone on his way up, texting dealers at random, looking to score.

#

Malcolm stood at the corner of his building, skin feverish with the anticipation of the needle. He wore fresh clothes and his hands were washed, but he could still feel the residue on his fingers, gloopy blood stuffed beneath his nails. His teeth chattered as the car pulled up, the window rolling down. It wasn’t Drax, but it didn’t matter. He still owed. Malcolm owed every dealer he knew. He offered two hundred for a gram, knowing it would put a dent in his debt and would make the dealer happy enough to part with the dope without hassling him.

The baggie curled into his palm. A lightness of feeling seeped into him like water into a sponge. It wasn’t long before he was upstairs with a loaded barrel. The needle pressed into the skin, the skin giving before letting the needle puncture, a sweet spearing of pleasure sending a shiver down his spine. He shot up and color sprang back into the world. Malcolm felt good again, felt like a person. The sickness disappeared and satisfaction settled over his face like a bridal veil, marriage to his addiction flowering in his mind.

Malcolm slumped over, the needle dangling in the crook of his elbow, belt fixed to his arm loosely. He thought about Dorothy, her chin bibbed with blood, the knife buried in her chest. It was her eyes that burned through him, glazed and inanimate, staring into an abyss. He knew he had done a terrible thing, but it didn’t seem so bad now, the memory scrubbed over with heroin, hazy and abstract.
Malcolm tongued his lips, droopy eyes cast over the apartment, a siren blaring in the distance, louder with every second. He considered his life and what it led him to be, but it felt so difficult, the change he’d envisioned, that he’d pined for in days past. It wasn’t going to be as easy as he thought. It would take time, dedication. He thought he had it in him. After today, he would be better. After today, Malcolm would no longer be a slave to addiction.

Malcolm got well and he was going to change his life.

Tomorrow.

THE END

Richard Gregory

‘Trepidation’, ‘Surgical Notes’ & ‘Authenticity of Angels’

Kyle McCorquodale is a street photographer and amateur writer from Glasgow Scotland. He likes to focus on street abstract photography.

Trepidation 

swirling clouds

lightning

drenching rain

covering towns below

feeling vibrations

hearing wings flap

voices screeching

hungry beasts

lurking in streets

roaming between houses 

thirsting

preying

where 

can we hide

Surgical Notes

surgeons call it

a quadruple bypass

I call it

a grand slam

out of the park 

nightmare pain

forever a PTSD

beyond the shallow

breathing

gasping baby steps

emaciation

depression

prayers

end of tunnel light

a loss of muse

slowly returns

a renewal

fresh oxygen

fresh blood

circulate

this poem

Authenticity of Angels

wings folded or spread

sculpted stone 

marble bronze crystal

eyes closed gazing

up or down

hands in prayer 

playing a lyre

standing kneeling

churches graveyards

idolized in murals 

actually 

they live and walk

in our midst

plainly dressed 

maybe fancied up

speaking many tongues

called to deliver

messages

once

twice

sometimes more

warnings or promises

all too human

until they are called

Richard Eric Johnson lives and writes poetry in Arlington, Virginia. He has authored five full-length poetry collections and his poetry has appeared in numerous online and print journals. Eric is also a Pushcart nominee. He most recently was honored to be archived at La Salle University’s Connelly Library. He is a graduate of Indiana University with a B.A. in Germanic Languages and an M.S. in Education. After a tour in Viet Nam and West Berlin, he embarked on a career as a public servant and is now very happily retired.